Betrayal in Neon
Betrayal in Neon I The apartment on West Eighty-First Street smelled of stale coffee and old paper, the kind of smell that settles into the walls when you have been writing the same novel for six months and have not left the building except to buy more coffee. Henry Warren sat at his desk with his typewriter, the keys sticky with spilled liquid, and stared at the page that refused to fill...
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